It was this wry, resigned poem from a 1982 collection, Winterlude, by Vernon Scannell
Protest Poem
It was a good word once, a little sparkler,
Simple, innocent even, like a hedgerow flower,
And irreplaceable. None of its family
Can properly take over: merry & jolly
Both carry too much weight; jocund & blithe
Were pensioned off when grandpa was alive.
Vivacious is a flirt; she’s lived too long
With journalists & advertising men.
Spritely & spry, both have a nervous tic.
There is no satisfactory substitute.
It’s down the drain & we are going to miss it.
No good advising me to go ahead
And use the word as ever. If I did
We know that someone’s bound to smirk or snigger.
Of all the epithets why pick this one?
Some deep self-mocking irony
Or blindfold stab into the lexicon?
All right. Then let’s call heterosexuals sad,
Dainty for rapists, shy for busy flashers,
Numinous for necrophiles, quaint for stranglers;
The words & world are mad! I must protest
Although I know my cause is lost.
A good word once, & I’m disconsolate
And angered by this simple syllable’s fate:
A small innocence gone, a little Fall.
I grieve the loss. I am not gay at all.
Simple, innocent even, like a hedgerow flower,
And irreplaceable. None of its family
Can properly take over: merry & jolly
Both carry too much weight; jocund & blithe
Were pensioned off when grandpa was alive.
Vivacious is a flirt; she’s lived too long
With journalists & advertising men.
Spritely & spry, both have a nervous tic.
There is no satisfactory substitute.
It’s down the drain & we are going to miss it.
No good advising me to go ahead
And use the word as ever. If I did
We know that someone’s bound to smirk or snigger.
Of all the epithets why pick this one?
Some deep self-mocking irony
Or blindfold stab into the lexicon?
All right. Then let’s call heterosexuals sad,
Dainty for rapists, shy for busy flashers,
Numinous for necrophiles, quaint for stranglers;
The words & world are mad! I must protest
Although I know my cause is lost.
A good word once, & I’m disconsolate
And angered by this simple syllable’s fate:
A small innocence gone, a little Fall.
I grieve the loss. I am not gay at all.
